


o fill me with strength

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery, Team Dynamics, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Working My Feelings Through Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:25:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rescue mission is a success but Natasha is angry, everybody is making a fuss and the only one pushing the right buttons is Bruce .</p>
            </blockquote>





	o fill me with strength

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [Avengers Kinkmeme](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com). The prompt was: " _Natasha was captured and held for three weeks, when she is rescued and returned, the only person she'll let touch her intimately is Bruce._ "

 

 

`I can't believe this! You are pissed off _at me_ for rescuing you. You... you are a _maniac_.´

Tony is still wearing his suit of armor, and because Natasha is very intent on not looking at his face right now she takes notices of the sweat pooling where his neck meets the edge of metal. And she, too, is still wearing dry blood and bruises all over her.

`You interfered with a mission,´ Natasha chews and spits the words at Tony, looking up.

`If that mission consisted on getting your ass kidnapped and held hostage for three weeks then get me Fury on the phone because such excellent work clearly deserves a raise.´

Natasha thinks, vaguely, about hitting him (to be fair this is not the first time she's thought about hitting Tony Stark and she suspects it won't be the last). But she just stands there, arms crossed, face to face with Tony, not blinking. Knowing that this gets to him more than anything.

`You are _a psycho_ ,´ he repeats, amazement piling upon anger.

`You had no idea what you were doing,´ she tells him. `This was my mission, no one else's. You could have blown the whole thing. Why couldn't you stay out of my way?´

She doesn't mean it, of course, but it feels good to say it and not mean it, to watch Tony's eyes narrow and drop, waiting for a retort that won't come.

The whole room has gone strangely quiet. And then Steve steps up ( _Captain America_ always has to step up, Natasha notes with weariness) and puts himself between her and Tony.

`That's not fair, Natasha. We were worried.´

`Yeah, _worried_ doesn't help the job, Cap.´

`The job, Agent Romanoff, is first to keep each other safe,´ he says, hand raised.

She could hit him, too, but it would be hitting a National Treasure, a living legend, something along those lines, so it's probably not a good idea. Also he is right, even though at this moment it doesn't really register with her – it will, when she calms the fuck down. She clenches her fingers into a fist and bites down the rage at seeing the looks they are all giving her.

She is walking out of this room.

Clint, she knows, is an expert in survival, so he lets Natasha leave without her having to say another word.

 

 

 

 

Tony stops talking to her altogether after this, which, as far as Natasha is concerned, is exactly what she was trying for, and he should have done so without prompting.

 

 

 

 

She still has to go to the infirmary.

It's not too bad, the cut on her neck doesn't bother her, it basically healed on its own, but she sprained her wrist during the rescue ( _rescue_ , the word itself makes her feel sick, even though she knows she has no reason to) and if she skips the routine and goes straight to her room –which is the only thing she wants right now, her room and the lock on the door between her and the world– Jarvis would probably tell on her, the little computerized snitch.

So she marches to their makeshift Avengers medical center in the tenth floor.

Bruce has taken upon himself the unofficial position as go-to doctor of the Avengers Tower. Sure, S.H.I.E.L.D. has better and greater facilities but none of them are too keen on dealing with the bureaucracy of being debriefed and stared at every time they get a scratch, and civilian hospitals are out of the question for obvious reasons. Stark, specially, seems to be willing to _die_ before being tended by actual doctors and nurses. And then there's Thor who usually goes home in any state, underestimating the gravity of his injures because... well, because he is _a god_.

So if they are not going to turn themselves in to professionals someone has to make sure they don't bleed to death on the criminally expensive rugs and handcarved glass tables and that someone seems to be Bruce, not quite a doctor but with enough experience (and experience in much more difficult conditions) to get by. And basically the only one of them who has _offered_ to do it.

It's obvious that he has been waiting for Natasha to drop by. Normally he is _called_ to help out, instead of just standing there in the middle of the room like he is doing now, methodically checking the equipment until she appears.

`Not bad,´ is his initial assessment. `Three weeks. I thought you'd be in a worse condition.´

She is sure he has bothered reading the whole field report but anyway.

`They stopped beating me after the first week, when they realized I wasn't going to talk.´

Bruce raises one eyebrow. `You are scary.´

It's matter-of-factly, almost normal. Or normal for them. She can almost breathe again. He studies her wounds as if she were a second-rate S.H.I.E.L.D. minion, not his teammate. He is cold and swift and precise. He is careful not to touch her more than necessary, she notices this.

`Any pain?´

When she tries to talk she coughs and Bruce stops her.

`Throat will be sore for a couple of days when you talk,´ he explains. `That's the isolation.´

`I know.´

`Yeah.´

There's something in Bruce's casual tone that suggest he knows what he is talking about. It occurs to Natasha that he _knows_ exactly what he is talking about.

`I think my wrist is sprained.´

He watches her move her hand and wince in pain, but he doesn't properly examine it himself.

`I can leave the bandages over here. I bet you are more skilled at this than me, anyway.´

Perhaps it's not sound medical advice (though he is probably right, she has a lot of experience) but Natasha appreciates the fact that he is not making a fuss. It's exactly what she needs.

He leaves her alone to bandage the hand herself.

She has done it a thousand times. It shouldn't be any different. It shouldn't.

 

 

 

 

When she finally gets to her quarters she examines the damage in the mirror. She's seen worse. She's _been_ worse. Her face is suddenly a stranger after all these days. Her eyes sting from lack of sleep.

She massages her shoulder and lets out a pained groan.

`Is there anything I can assist you with, Agent Romanoff?´ says the British-sounding robotic voice of the building.

Natasha rolls her eyes at no one in particular.

`I swear, Jarvis, don't _you_ start.´

 

 

 

 

More disturbingly, Thor too has something to say, when they see each other in the kitchen that afternoon, both of them voracious, if ill-timed, eaters.

`There is no dishonor in asking for help, Lady Natasha.´

He says _Lady_ and he means it like a joke, to cheer her up. He has learned these things already: self-reflecting irony, and the desire to make others smile, these are not things he carried over from Asgard.

And for some reason it's the gentleness in his eyes what makes her feel sick.

(what these men don't understand: it doesn't matter, this has been her before, many times, and she survives and she is not hardened by it, nobody breaks her, nobody comes close, she says _I'm fine_ and means exactly that – she wishes she didn't have to say it, they didn't have to ask)

 

 

 

 

Bruce tells her to drink lemon juice and honey and she does, because his voice is tight and warmthless and he acts like they do this every day.

 

 

 

 

It's not like she doesn't know what she is doing, or _why_ or how unfair it is for everybody. She is not in shock or denial. But she's never let something like this bother her before.

She's been kidnapped and rescued on more than one previous occasions. And she's rescued people from similar situations. The first time she was tortured she was thirteen. It's not that.

It's not the pain or the isolation. She is fine. Or she will be. Or it doesn't really matter. She is who she is.

But. She made a mistake. She fucked up. And she got them all involved. And it was all for her own selfish reasons. She went off wanting to settle old scores and while there is no fixing the past she has discovered the past can taint your present life if you let it.

The reason: she's never been part of such a reduced operation. She has always been either alone or assimilated by a huge and far-reaching organization, which was the same as being alone in many respects. When she was just working for S.H.I.E.L.D. she didn't really care about what her superiors thought, she only cared about getting the job done. She never cared about appearing strong. _Strong_ is an illusion, it's a measure of deception, and she was never interested in playing that game. Playing that role. Superiors are superiors. But now there are no superiors, she is part of something based on the equality of its parts, and even though everybody knows and agrees Steve is their leader they all get a vote, they all weight the same. There's no longer just the mission, there's also _them_ , even more important than the mission itself.

She doesn't want them making a fuss because they shouldn't have to.

She doesn't want them worrying because she is here to worry about them.

She is not interested in appearing strong but she wants to be strong for them.

 

 

 

 

Even Clint is getting on her nerves, which isn't exactly a first but it's rare enough. He'd normally know when to leave her be.

Clearly being part of this stupid team is softening him.

At least he keeps a safe distance, physically, because he can sense she is still on edge after twenty-four hours. The best thing about Clint is also the worst thing about Clint: he can always tell what she is thinking.

`I know what you are afraid of,´ he says softly. `And nobody trusts you any less because of this.´

`Maybe they should. I would.´

Clint rubs his eyes, uses an unusually urgent tone with her.

`You wouldn't. You haven't. How many times did we have to save Stark's ass? And when the Cap almost got blown to pieces and couldn't move for two hours and we had to drag him through the damn battleground... Did you think less of him then?´

`It's not the same.´

`And me? I've lost count of the times – even before all this. Without you or Fury or Coulson I wouldn't be here, Tasha. That's a fact.´

`It's not the same,´ she repeats. It still hurts to talk for too long, like somebody scrapped her vocal chords against a grater.

`Why? Because you are –´

`Because this was personal.´

`Everything is personal.´

And he is right and it didn't used to be, and she resents him for changing his tune so easily, for being so good at _this_ , when she should be the expert. Natasha is good at adapting. This is not adaptation, this is _change_.

`I don't want to talk about this anymore.´

He does that thing where he smiles and it's half concerned and half letting her go. Like that time after the Halifax fiasco when Natasha had to be hospitalized for five days; this was the smile he gave her when he told her that the doctors were still worried but that she was out of the woods.

`That's all you had to say, really,´ he tells her.

And quietly he leaves her room.

 

 

 

 

 

That night, Bruce finds her in the infirmary at three in the morning.

`I saw the light,´ he says.

`I was raiding your medicine cabinet.´

Bruce doesn't seem in the mood to question her story. Natasha is not in the mood to investigate if she had hoped for him to show up.

`I had trouble adjusting the patterns of– I can't sleep,´ she adds. She is not telling him of her state, she is merely reasoning her presence in this his space. `What are you doing up at this hour?´

He runs one hand through his hair. His sleeves are rolled up above his elbows.

`I was working late. It's a trick problem I'm banging my head against right now.´

She nods. She doesn't speak the Stark-Banner blend of pseudo-scientific babbling so all she knows is that Bruce has been working on a software update for his lab, something separate from the controls that run the Tower, or who knows, perhaps it was a new algorithm, she wasn't paying attention, and he is always working on things like new algorithms and detector response generator programs and simulated spectrum, even when there is no present need, numbers to put a wall between him and the madness of the world, and Natasha doesn't really care unless they find out how to use it _against_ that madness. They all have their little comforts and she knows Bruce needs his more desperately than the others need theirs.

He looks like he hasn't slept in days, hasn't shaved in at least a week. He still looks too wild to fit in those pricey clothes, and too domesticated to be out in the wild, still living between two worlds and Natasha could teach him a lot about that, if she wanted.

After a lengthy silence he gestures to the cupboard behind her.

`The _expensive_ pills are on the third drawer.´

She hesitates when she opens the bottle.

`No, please, go ahead,´ he says. `We're all big fans of self-medication here at the Avengers Tower.´

True but ironic, considering his self-appointed task as guardian of the team's health. At least somebody retains a shred of humor round here, she thinks, grateful. But then again she's always thought Bruce is more darkly humorous than they all give him credit for.

He watches as Natasha downs three tablets.

She gives him a look.

`What?´

`You haven't asked what's really wrong with me,´ she points out.

`Ah, that,´ He sits on the chair besides the exam table. `The others are pretty busy doing that. I thought I might not be welcome in the operation.´

The absolute dryness in his tone is soothing.

It occurs to her that perhaps his air of disinterest is not a front.

`You don't care. Do you?´ she asks, sounding a bit defensive.

`I care a great deal. That's why I don't ask.´

Natasha frowns, the words catching her attention like something glittering at the bottom of the ocean. `A _great deal_?´

Bruce lets out a self-deprecating chuckle.

`There you go, Banner, running your mouth,´ he says, not quite to himself, looking down at his hands. Then up at her again. `But you want to be left alone.´

Natasha nods on instinct.

She wants to be here. So much that suddenly she wants to be _anywhere_ but. She turns around, in a hurry to leave, not knowing if his eyes are following as she walks out of the door.

 

 

 

 

The next day she spends working in the conference room, swallowing pages and pages of classified materials. Overworking and she knows it. Overthinking and she hates it.

And then she is stuck reading the same paragraphs five times in a row when none other than Steve Rogers comes in through the damn door. He sits across from her and takes a glance at the files, and Natasha wonders if his eidetic memory also works upside down. Probably.

`A bit too early to be prepping for this,´ he comments.

`It's never too early to prep for a mission.´

`Very good answer, agent,´ he nods appreciatively.

Natasha pretends to go back to reading.

Steve gives her his “ _Are you okay?_ ” concerned-grandfather smile but to his credit he doesn't actually pronounce the words. Perhaps people wouldn't believe it from his name but _Captain America_ is capable of a lot of subtlety.

`Everything is fine,´ she tells him. `I've lost a lot of time, that's all. I want to make up for it.´

That is complete bullshit and she knows it, and Steve probably does too. But he doesn't press her.

`I won't let anybody in this team disrespect you, Natasha,´ he says. `But likewise I won't let you disrespect anybody in my team.´

It vaguely sounds like a threat. _My team_ doesn't sound quite the same in Steve's voice as it does inside her head.

`I know. I understand,´ she tells him and Steve's expression relaxes a bit.

`Will you talk to Tony please?´ he asks.

`No. Unless it's an order.´

He sits back on his chair, tapping his fingers on the desk. `I know he blames himself for not extracting you sooner. That's why he was so... _harsh_ with you. He feels bad.´

`It was my mission. It had nothing to do with you guys.´

Steve's face crumples like a sheet of paper and he really does look like a grandfather for a moment, his eyes become darker and deeper like they always do when he gets serious. He is glaring at her. She swears he is about to call her _young lady_ or something like that.

`Of course it had something to do with us. You have something to do with us.´

Natasha nods even though she doesn't mean to because this is worse than receiving a talking to from Fury, this is way worse.

`I'll talk to Tony,´ he tells her. `But you are not to go off on your own again. Understood? _This_ is an order.´

And again the sternness dissolves in his face and he throws her this little smile of discomfort. Natasha mumbles something about wanting to finish this report so that he'll leave her alone.

He does and she is left reading the same paragraph a sixth time without registering what any of the words actually mean.

 

 

 

 

The next time she comes into the infirmary they don't talk about what he said. She doesn't even have a excuse for being here either.

Like it's a ritual or a habit or a pattern. Something they just do.

They sit on the exam table side by side, though they are not touching. But they are so close Natasha can feel the heat from his body and she doesn't find the proximity completely unwelcome.

He says nothing. Or rather, he waits for her to speak first.

When she speaks she does so looking straight at the wall across the room, white and dull and non-judgmental.

`I don't like being scared,´ she says. `It's not a feeling I've learned how to be comfortable with.´

She can see his heavy smile from the corner of her eye.

`I'm not sure there's a way of _learning_ that. Trust me, I have a pretty extensive record of being afraid. Mainly of myself.´

`I have some experience on the subject of being afraid of you, too, doc.´

That almost makes him laugh; not quite but Natasha can almost taste the ringing noise at the back of his throat. She sees herself leaning into his side, touching their elbows, but she doesn't actually do it. They remain the same.

No one has been able to make her talk about it, about the center of it.

No one has been able to make her talk but that doesn't mean she doesn't want to talk.

Perhaps Bruce understands the difference.

`If I can't take care of myself... then I'm a liability,´ she says, low, wishing the room had more darkness to hide her face from him.

But Bruce only looks at her sideways and that she can tolerate.

`Hey, I'm this team's biggest liability, you don't have to explain how that feels.´

It's not patronizing, and it's not comforting. It's not false sympathy. It's _the truth_.

`For a long time I only had to worry about myself. And then I worried about _everybody_ on the planet,´ he adds. `But worrying about five people is much, much worse than worrying about the whole world.´

Natasha thinks about Clint saying “everything is personal”, meaning “everything is personal _now_ ”. Natasha fights against the idea, and she is so worn out by the fighting. And then there's Bruce's _five people_ and how he cares a great deal and she fights against that even harder, teeth and nails, she fights because like a word it could ruin everything, like trying to be strong it could make her weak, like holding on to something it could make her lose it.

She doesn't know how long they stay like this, sitting next to each other, Bruce's forearm resting so close to her hand on the table that she could flex her fingers just a bit and reach him and it'd still be an accident.

She doesn't know how long they stay like this, she knows he is the first to walk away.

 

 

 

 

Tony takes his private jet back to the West Coast and Pepper. She guesses he is still angry because his idea of a farewell is saying to the room ` _If Agent Romanoff pulls another stunt like that while I'm gone, please don't call me, let her figure it out_ ´. Steve does the 1940s equivalent of eye-rolling and ushers Tony out of the door.

 

 

 

 

They are watching the news in the morning and when Clint tries to put his arm around her shoulder, playfully, like he's done _a million_ times, she shrinks away from him, like it burns.

`Wow, Tasha, sorry.´

He looks confused because Clint normally doesn't put a foot wrong when it comes to her.

She feels guilty.

`No, it's okay,´ she shrugs. `I'm just still a bit jumpy. It's not your fault.´

She feels weird about it; Clint and her are not so big on boundaries, she normally steals from the food he is eating and he sits on her chair and they shop together and that's how it's always been, a kind of sibling-like obsession with taking over each other's spaces. Like they fought a war together and there was so little room that they learned to live with each other back to back, shoulder to shoulder. Because Clint knows when to give her that space back and Natasha has never seen him needing solitude to get back on his feet, not like her, and they have always been instinctive about it.

She says _I'm sorry_ because she can't hold Clint responsible for being a part of it all.

 

 

 

 

It's probably ill-advised (there are muscles and joints in her body that should still hurt, and then the ones that are not ready for a fight just yet) but she locks herself in the gym for a couple of hours. She tries the punching bags, figuring that Captain American's choice of poison should work for her too.

She doesn't even have to work up much of a sweat to know it doesn't.

 

 

 

 

`Can you check my wrist? I'm not sure it's healed properly. Still feels sore when I move.´

She imagines the blank expression on his face conceals how unconvinced he is by it. But she is being paranoid. Except that Bruce stares at her for too long before gesturing to sit on the exam table.

She watches the movement of his hands as he opens his kit.

He takes the chair and sits in front of her, indicating that she should show him the injured hand.

This time he does it properly, holding her arm and telling her to rest her hand on his open palm. He tells her to squeeze as he presses his index against the hollow under her thumb. Natasha doesn't feel the need to recoil – this surprises her and she knows it shouldn't, and she knows exactly why, because she has to suppress the beginning of a shiver lighting through her body.

`Seems fine to me,´ he tells her flatly.

She is embarrassed. This is ridiculous. `Yes. It's fine. Sorry, I...´

`Natasha.´

His voice sounds far away, because she is too busy making excuses for what she feels right now.

`I wanted...´

` _Natasha_.´

`What?´

He rests his hand, open-palmed, against her wrist. The weight of it anchors her.

`Deprivation means more than a sore throat when you came back to us,´ he says. His voice is soft. Somehow Natasha doesn't find that unnerving. `It's okay, not wanting to be touched. It's also okay to want...´

He trails off. She raises her eyebrow. How long has he known? Probably all this time, from the beginning. _Bastard_ she thinks and she grabs the sleeve of his shirt, forces him to stand up and pulls him against her. His lips are dry and Natasha surprises herself by admitting she has imagined it, imagined this, has been wanting this.

At first he hesitates to kiss her back, not risking a mistake. His left hand skims over her hip, unsure, until finally he holds her and presses himself against her body. Then both his hands drift upwards until they are tangled in her hair, pulling her at the same time as Natasha reaches up to meet him, and now he is really kissing her back, fervently and more than a bit awkwardly, like he is sure he only has one shot at this and the pressure terrifies him.

Natasha wants to tell him he's wrong, he doesn't just get one shot at this, but that idea scares her too much so she moans against his tongue to fight the urge to actually say the words.

She wants him to touch her and there's so much stupid need and frustration and hopelessness in that realization it's more than overwhelming. It's baffling.

Natasha draws back, wanting to see his eyes; he looks stunned and fragile.

(Natasha has to consciously remind herself that this guy is _the Hulk_ because right now her head is so full of _Bruce, Bruce, Bruce_ that there's the danger she forgets for good)

She snorts.

`What?´ Bruce looks on the edge of _mortified_. `Did I do...?´

She wraps her arms around his neck, kissing the corner of his lips as gently as she dares.

`I've been a jerk...´ she says, and it's almost funny.

`Yeah.´

`...to everybody.´

`I have been pretty horrible to you,´ Bruce argues against her mouth.

`You have.´

`I'm sorry.´

Like all of Bruce's apologies this one is genuine.

Natasha shakes her head, drawing him close again, kissing with teeth.

He pushes his hand under her shirt, his thumb stopping on the ridge of every rib and then his fingers are cold when he brushes her stomach and Natasha swears under her breath, not really sure in what language it comes out.

`Natasha. _Tell me_...´

But she doesn't have to. She guides his hand between their bodies, fingers slipping under the elastic waistband easily and it's pathetic that she is mentally celebrating her idea of coming here directly from the gym, wearing workout clothes.

She thinks about Steve's orders and Clint's gentleness and Thor's eyes and Tony's anger and it chokes her.

She lets it choke her.

She lets everything hit her: the fear of the last weeks, her guilt for involving the others, her anger at being treated with care and worry and the absurdity of that anger, her own disappointment at herself and above all the simultaneous repulsion and desire to be touched. All the reasons why she's kept coming here these past few days, to this space, and to Bruce.

It's surprisingly easy, and quick, how she sits at the edge of the table and angles her body and his hand moves across her, into her, cupping her, the skin of his palm cracked and she feels it's all he can do to still seem _reticent_ , even under his soft cursing and his mouthing her name against her ear. He doesn't know what to do with his other arm until he finds the hollow between her shoulder-blades where the heel of his hand seems to fit so well.

His fingers inside her and a short while later Natasha thinks it's too much and not enough and _exactly_.

He can feel her rush towards it because he gives her this questioning look and Natasha nods, pressing her forehead against his cheek, closing her eyes and drawing a long breath as she comes. They stay like that for a little bit afterwards, his fingers inside her and her lips against the curve of his neck, panting and hating that noise but unable to pull away just yet.

In the end it's Bruce the one who pulls away, giving her a bit of space, touching two fingertips against her nape.

It's an easy trick to control her breathing, evening it out, oh this her expertly trained body.

He lets her breathe and she breathes with one hand curled into the hem of his shirt and her mouth against his shoulder. She has the silly impulse to say _thank you_ to him, though she is not sure for what part of this all. Probably everything.

Instead: she takes his hand in hers and gets up from the table, dragging him towards the door, with calm and intent but at some speed.

`Where are–? What are we–?´

`Going to my room.´

Calculating, like she is giving him orders for the next mission. A trick to hide everything underneath. She is, after all, still a good spy. She can do this without embarrassing herself too much.

`Your room is scary,´ he says.

She doesn't argue – her room is bare and functional and everything you would expect from a master assassin. But she's seen Bruce's room, too, and it's just as sparse, if only in a different way. His room looks like he expects to have to pack his things and run away any moment. They have that in common: none of them feels completely comfortable with belonging to a team just yet, their default setting is doing things alone.

`But it's closer than yours,´ she offers.

Bruce stops in his tracks, thinking about it. His hand in Natasha's, the other slightly resting on her hip, cautious.

`I stand defeated by your logic,´ he says and lets himself be pulled further along towards the elevator.

And Natasha wants to kiss him again, here in the corridor, and even though there's nobody around she fights against it. She lets go of his hand for a moment. There's only so much more that she is willing to yield tonight. She knows Bruce wouldn't hold it against her, no matter how much she revealed, but that's why she can let herself hide under old layers. She can't allow anyone to see the wound has cut clean to the bone.

Maybe just right at this moment Natasha can't let herself be exposed like that.

Maybe right at this moment Natasha can't let herself be exposed like that, but that doesn't mean she doesn't _want_ to.

When she turns her head to see if he is following Bruce looks at her like he understands the difference.


End file.
